


Here At The End Of All Things

by riwriting



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1990, And How to Deal with Them, Aziraphale POV, Book Omens Week, Canon - Book, Crowley POV, Free Will, Missing Scenes, Shopping, Wings, aftermath of world not ending, and emotions related to same, and what that means, bookomensweek, bookverse, hand holding, it is mentioned that crowley has been tortured in the past, seriously so much discussion about free will, the army jeep, ugly pajama pants, what to do now that the world did not end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riwriting/pseuds/riwriting
Summary: “What if,” Aziraphale said, “We were always meant to have choices?  We just...didn't imagine we could.  What if Heaven and Hell are just, are just choices?  You're the one who's always saying that it's just names for sides.  What are the sides even about anyway?”Crowley's muffled voice came from the pillow.  “I feel like I'm the one who's supposed to ask that stuff.”-------Aziraphale and Crowley, after leaving Tadfield and before meeting at St. James Park at 11:30 on Sunday, work through what it means for the world not to have ended and what might come next.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 63





	Here At The End Of All Things

Title: Here At The End Of All Things

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley

Notes: My contribution to the Book Omens Week Challenge.

_“[Crowley] reached a hand down to Aziraphale. 'Come on,' he said, 'I'll drive us back to London.'”_ \- Good Omens, p. 447

In the end, it was his watch's fault. Even with a rotted away battery, Crowley's wristwatch kept perfect time - or it had, until that afternoon. The watch had always worked because Crowley assumed it would. The converse was also true - Crowley had assumed the watch would stop working when time stopped. Time should have stopped that afternoon, but no one had remembered to tell the watch that Armageddon was off.

Crowly wasn't thinking about the watch, though. He hadn't given it a single thought since Before. Instead, he was wondering why _this_ had seemed like a good idea. Did Aziraphale even think this through? When the angel suggested that _maybe_ they should take the night and figure out what their next steps should be, it sounded like a good idea. Six thousand years of working for Hell had taught Crowley the benefits of paranoia, and the idea of having a plan felt somewhat comforting against the storm of all the things that could go wrong. Aziraphale's follow-up suggestion that, if they weren't going to go all the way back to London tonight, it might be useful to obtain clothes that hadn't been split open and shredded by wings had also seemed logical. Their clothes were in tatters. Crowley's were singed. When Crowley went to miracle up some new ones and Aziraphale argued that maybe they should avoid miracles and lie low for a little bit, that seemed to make sense, too. Anything that kept him off Hell's radar would be a good thing. This was a good plan. Really, it was. It was just...well, look at this place.

“We should be able to find something here.” In front of him, Aziraphale began sorting through a rack of what someone apparently thought passed as men's clothing.

Crowley stopped beside the angel and shoved his shaking hands into the pockets in his trousers. There were ugly T-shirts, his mind registered, and plaid pajamas and jumpers that no fashionable human would ever willingly be seen in. “Who wears this stuff?”

“Humans, I believe.” Aziraphale was checking a tag. He gave a little sigh. “I suppose it's a good thing that clothes are premade when things like this happen, but it was so much easier back when someone would simply make your wardrobe to your specifications. Less guesswork involved.” He pulled a long sleeved black shirt from the rack and held it up in front of himself. “What do you think of this? It even has a zipper in the front. That's rather _in_ , isn't it?”

Crowley looked from the shirt to Aziraphale to the shirt. He could not be serious. Neon green flames danced across the chest in a way that reminded him of the designs humans placed on cars that were not as cool as Bentleys. It was, well, it was _something_ was what it was. He vaguely wondered if Aziraphale thought demons went around wearing all black and were into flame motifs.

“Oh, and look,” Aziraphale held up a similar shirt in a royal blue and emblazoned with a black sun wearing shades on the back. “They have the same style in your size. This should work nicely.” He pushed the second shirt at Crowley before moving towards a shelf with ugly trousers.

Crowley glared at the angel's retreating back. Didn't Aziraphale know that the sort of human Crowley tried to be would not be caught dead in this low end department store buying zippered sweatshirts at – he checked his watch.

It had stopped. The hands of all the dials of all 21 capitals were frozen in place, perfectly preserving the time that the world was supposed to have ended.

It was several hours since the world should have ended.

The world should have ended.

Crowley knew he was holding the shirts with one hand the same way he knew he was staring at Aziraphale's back and the same way he knew he was standing in a store. He was _aware_ and yet he could not quite piece this together. The world should have ended. They were in a store. The world was supposed to.... He felt his fingers slide through his hair. Out of habit, he mentally scolded himself for messing it up before realizing he already looked like a nightmare.

There was a break in Aziraphale's dithering, followed by, “Crowley?”

They weren't dead. They should be dead. The world should be falling apart in fire and...and...and fire.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale's voice cut through again. “Are you quite alright?”

He straightened, free hand going to smooth the tattered remains of his jacket. “Yeah.” He managed to get out. “Fine. Just...” Crowley waved a hand at the racks of clothes, “Why can't we go to Harrods?”

“Because,” Aziraphale sniffed as if the question was the sort of distasteful scent one encountered on a city street a century prior, “Harrod's is not near here. We made a plan, Crowley, and _I'm_ not going to sleep in this.” Aziraphale waved at his torn clothing. Crowley's mind helpfully chose that moment to remind him that Aziraphale was in the same shirt and coat that he'd been wearing at the hospital, and that Aziraphale had been quite put out when paint.... “You need to shower and change, too,” Aziraphale continued. “Motor inns do not sell pajamas and this is the only place we've found so far that's open this time of night.”

“Yeah, but Angel,” Crowley heard himself talking as if this was just another normal conversation, as if the world had not very nearly ended mere hours ago, as if everything hadn't.... “Look at this stuff. Horrible, the lot of it.”

“Beggars can't be choosers.” Aziraphale quipped in that prissy, holier-than-thou way of his that was so aggravating and so _Aziraphale_...

He could hear the fire. He didn't even have to close his eyes and imagine. He could hear it. Smell it. It was so hot. It felt like Hell. It felt worse than Hell, when you got right down to it, because even in Hell of all places he still knew Aziraphale was okay and wasn't....

Aziraphale was here. He was whole and breathing and alive and here.

And five hours ago he hadn't been.

“Crowley.”

Hands were on his face now. Aziraphale was in front of him. Crowley was...he was sitting on the floor? Why was he on the floor? He couldn't remember. He wasn't even drunk and he couldn't.... “Mm fine,” Crowley said.

“You just _fell over_. I don't think you're _fine_.”

“I'm fine,” Crowley repeated, pushing away the hands that were fussing at him. “Just...” he searched for an excuse – any excuse. “Tripped.”

“Tripped.” Aziraphale's voice was monotone.

“My leg,” Crowley tried to sound as unaffected as the angel. “It fell asleep and I tripped.”

Aziraphale continued to look at him for several long moments before lowering his eyes. “But you're okay.”

“Fine.” Crowley said again. He moved to stand. “Come on. We need ugly trousers.” He could feel the weight of Aziraphale's gaze on him as he moved to the shelves under a loudly painted sign that proclaimed _Lounge Wear!!!_ He tried to focus on wondering why the sign needed three exclamation points. Exclamation points were easy. Questions about exclamation points were relegated to things like _why are there three?_ and _are three really necessary?_ and not _what is going to happen now?_

Not _now_ -now. Now they were going to buy ugly trousers and go get some rest at a motor inn and figure out, well, what to do _now_.

The Antichrist boy, he said that everyone would forget. Maybe the humans forgot, but Crowley remembered. He remembered every painful detail of the past week. From what he could gather, Aziraphale remembered, too. And if he remembered, and Aziraphale remembered, then surely their bosses and everyone else back at Head Office remembered. Crowley wasn't sure what Heaven would do to Aziraphale. They might kick him out. They tended to favor that form of punishment. Or they might let the punishment fit the crime and banish him from Earth forever, which Crowley suspected would be absolute torment for the angel. Heaven was not necessarily big on maintaining collections of the sort of heretical tomes Aziraphale coveted, and Crowley had not been kidding about the lack of sushi and overabundance of certain musicals.

As for himself...well, there wasn't much question there. Hell had already been quite explicit on his fate, whenever they got around to dishing it out. There were lots of things a supernatural being could get out of. You could even get out of being an angel when you got right down to it. There was only one exception, one thing that you could not get out of - once you were damned, you belonged to Hell. You could say you quit. You could try to walk away. They would still come for you, collect you, bring you back, and punish you. That was how it worked.

It wasn't fair. When a human quit his job, he simply did not have a job. No one punished him. He wasn't thrown on the rack above a sea of fire. He was free - free to get another job or find something else to do with his time. Now that Crowley had, for all intents and purposes, given notice in a very big, very final way, why could he not expect the same? _Because_ y _ou aren't human. You'll never be human. 'Humans can hope for death or redemption but you can hope for_ _nothing_ _.'_ *

Aziraphale silently joined him at the _Lounge Wear!!!_ wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley watched as the angel began to sort through the various array of colors.

They knew. Hell. Hell knew. The thought hit him with the sort of strong certainty that made him want to climb into the center of one of the racks of clothes on the floor and hide behind the fabric. Hell knew that he wasn't exactly Aziraphale's enemy. They hadn't paid much attention to how Crowley had spent his free time the last six thousand years, but they could not have missed the part where he was clutching Aziraphale's hand while rebelling against Hell mere hours ago. They might go after Aziraphale. Heaven probably wouldn't be too bothered to interfere to protect a wayward angel, either. And Hastur – bless it - Hastur would probably consider it a two-for-one – one less angel and a sort of poetic justice against Crowley. Crowley, who murdered Hastur's...well, _friend_ was too strong a word since demons didn't really have those, but perhaps _ally in Hellish assignments_. Hastur would kill Aziraphale. It wouldn't be quick and kind, either, because Hastur was a particularly nasty sort. And he'd make Crowley watch, just as Hastur had watched when Crowley dropped holy water on Hastur's ally in Hellish assignments.

“Ah.” Aziraphale held up a pair of plaid trousers in the same black and green color scheme as his zipped sweatshirt as if it was a prize. He passed it to Crowley with a smile.

He was so ready to get out of here. Crowley grabbed the closest pair of trousers – yellow with red hearts, and added it to their pile. One of Aziraphale's eyebrows rose. Crowley looked back, expressionless.

The angel shrugged and, with a sort of forced cheerfulness, turned back to the store. “Right then. I'd like a clean set of undergarments. Is there anything else you want?”

“No. I'm-”

“Fine. Yes.” Aziraphale became snippy. “You've made that _quite_ clear.”

Part of Crowley wanted to throw the pile of clothes on the floor and scream. That, however, would only make it worse, would only convince Aziraphale that Crowley was a liability, and would only end in disaster. So he kept quiet, pushed his sunglasses back up from where they'd started to slip down his nose, and silently waited for the angel to finish gathering whatever he needed.

And if he spent the next half hour trying to hide how hard his hands were shaking, well, he at least seemed to have succeeded in preventing Aziraphale from seeing his weakness. Apparently, the world wasn't beyond granting a demon this smallest of mercies.

~*~

_This_ , Aziraphale admitted as he pulled his fingers through his damp hair, _Is what loneliness feels like_ . He'd heard humans talk about it and thought he'd understood. After all, he had spent six thousand years more or less on his own. It was hard to form lasting friendships when most of those around you weren't going to be there in another century. He read a lot, which Aziraphale understood was a naturally solitary activity. But it had never felt like _this_. Not before. He wasn't sure what to do with the feeling. It was absolutely wretched. If he was being sensible, however, he knew it was not going to go away any time soon. Crowley's ongoing behavior made that painfully clear. He'd best get used to it. He was good at getting used to unpleasant things. It shouldn't be that hard.

Aziraphale heard movement in the next room. He'd been hiding long enough. No one took this long after a shower. Giving up on his hair being anything other than unruly curls, he shrugged into the sweatshirt he'd purchased, letting the zipper hang open in the back, and then opened the door.

On the other side of the room, Crowley froze where he was standing in front of the door to their room. One hand hung suspended slightly above the demon's head and he looked at Aziraphale over the opposite shoulder with wide eyes. The shades, Aziraphale noted, were surprisingly absent.

“What,” Aziraphale asked, “Are you doing?”

Crowley stiffened. His hand fell to his side. “Nothing.” When Aziraphale didn't respond, he said, “Your shirt is on backwards.”

Aziraphale shrugged. That was the reason he bought it. Something awkward hung between them. When the conversation remained completely and utterly stalled, Aziraphale gestured at the toilet. “It's your turn.”

Crowley nodded once. Without looking at Aziraphale, he strode across the tiny room, picking up the shopping bag from the lone chair in the room as he did so. The door shut behind him with a solid, final _thump_.

Aziraphale told himself that he really should not care whether a demon wanted to be friendly. It didn't help. It was just...well, it was just that there was only one other person who had any hope of understanding how Aziraphale felt right now. One other person who could understand how he was scared, isolated, nervous, betrayed, abandoned, heartbroken, and relieved. And that person was 'fine' and had been giving him the cold shoulder for the last hour.

He waited until he heard the water start before investigating the outer door for whatever the 'nothing' actually was. Wards. Crowley had been laying down wards. Aziraphale looked back towards the toilet and wondered if he should ask. No. No, it would just end like everything else had. Whatever was going on with Crowley, he did not believe Aziraphale was trustworthy enough to be brought up to speed.

The angel turned back to his study of the magic placed on their door. Whatever it was that had Crowley spooked – because it was only slightly less than blindingly obvious he was spooked if he was putting wards on a motel door – it was demonic in character. These wards were for protection against Hellish creatures, not Heavenly ones. Well, if Crowley had reason to believe they were at risk from Hell, it wouldn't hurt to add some of his own protection to it.

Drawing the invisible symbols for divine protection felt like second nature. The task was quickly completed, leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts once more. He considered waiting for Crowley to return, but doubted the demon's mood would have improved. If he managed to get anything out of Crowley, it would likely just be continuations and variations of the word, 'fine' – that is, if Crowley bothered to communicate at all.

The thought of having to sit silently in a cheap motel room with Crowley not talking to him was too much. Not bothering to remove his glasses, Aziraphale flopped face forward onto the bed. A bit of wriggling brought his head in line with the pillow. With a sigh, he let his wings unfurl behind him. It felt...it felt a bit like pressure releasing. It felt _comforting_ , that after everything he went through, after _disobeying_ a direct order, he still felt like an angel. It also came with an added benefit - if he pulled his wings in close, he could almost cocoon himself on his side of the bed and avoid any unpleasantness until the morning.

The shower shut off in the other room. The door to the en suite opened. Aziraphale stayed still, keeping his breathing as even as possible. Maybe, if he was convincing enough, Crowley would think he had finally decided to give sleep a go. Footsteps circled the bed before the wardrobe opened. Something soft and heavy was laid on his legs, then carefully tucked in around him as well as possible while avoiding any contact with his wings.

The corner of the bed sank, as if Crowley was sitting on it, and then everything was still. From where he lay, Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley without making it very obvious that he was not, in fact, asleep. He wondered what Crowley was doing. The television remained off, and there was no sound to suggest the demon was looking through pamphlet for a nearby historical home that comprised the only reading material in the room (Aziraphale had checked). What was he _doing_? Staring at the wall?

After a short eternity, the bed shifted again as Crowley stood. The lights clicked off with a soft sigh. Three footsteps covered the distance back to the bed before the distinctive rustle of feathers whispered through the air _._

The bed sank again, slower this time and covering more area, as Crowley lay down beside him. A second rustling, softer, suggested Crowley had mimicked the wing cocoon Aziraphale had made for himself, and then everything became quiet. Aziraphale listened for the tell tale sounds of sleep.

Minutes slipped by. He wasn't sure how many, but he knew some time had passed before long fingers caught the edge of the fabric of his shirt sleeve where his elbow peeked out from beneath his wing. They wrapped themselves in the fabric before becoming still.

It was...well it was odd. Aziraphale did not know what to make of it. He tried to think of any reason Crowley would want to hold the edge of someone else's shirt.

No. Not someone else's. _Mine_. He wanted to argue that he was not particularly important to Crowley. That he was a mere distraction for the demon – someone to amuse him if he was bored or to argue with when he felt contrary and wanted to rail against what he saw as the hypocrisy of the enemy. That he was someone Crowley came to in order to get out of work or to help fix his messes. That Crowley didn't see him as a friend.

 _You're very good_ , Aziraphale thought, _At lying to yourself_ . If there had been one thing he had forced himself to admit today, it was that, and all the ways that particular...particular... _oh, God in Heaven, Aziraphale, you have a character flaw_. There. He'd said it. Well, sort of. He'd said it to himself and that counted. Probably. He'd told himself, at the air base, that if he got out of all of that alive, he was going to do better. He wasn't doing very well with the doing better bit, was he?

He knew Crowley considered Aziraphale his friend. It didn't align with the sorts of things Head Office instructed, such as 'demons do not have any redeeming qualities,' 'demons are beings of hatred, not beings of love,' and 'demons cannot form friendships,' among others. Those, Aziraphale knew, if he was being honest with himself, were more lies. He tried to think about what it might be like to be a demon. It had to be rather awful. It was his impression that demons had even less people who liked them than angels. Sure, Aziraphale rarely talked to other angels these days, but when he did, they were at least civil, and the people Aziraphale did interact with – the humans – well, even if they didn't know what Aziraphale really was, they tended to see angels as positive things. Demons, meanwhile, well, he'd heard how other demons talked to Crowley. He knew what humans thought. If Aziraphale continued this trend of being honest about things, he knew that Crowley was not, in fact, as cool as he liked to pretend he was. He knew that Crowley desperately wanted to be human, and desperately wanted the humans to like him. He suspected, when he got right down to it, that Crowley desperately wanted Aziraphale to think he was cool and to like him. He knew that Crowley was terrified of his superiors and of other demons generally, and that this fear was justified.

Aziraphale didn't talk about things like how he was feeling or whether he was friends with someone because he was in denial. Crowley didn't talk about those things because he was scared. Aziraphale briefly wondered what happened to demons who let other demons know they were scared, and then realized he _knew_ and he just hadn't wanted to think about _that_ either.

Aziraphale lifted his wing enough to see his elbow. The fingers on his sleeve released. Even without seeing Crowley's face, Aziraphale could feel the discomfort radiating from the demon. He lifted his wing further.

When his eyes finally found Crowley's, the demon cast his downward. It would be easy to write off the whole sleeve _thing_ as 'demons should not touch angels and Crowley knew he broke the rule,' but _that_ would be more of that _lying to himself_ thing. The truth was more in line with Crowley believing he wasn't allowed to show that he wanted comfort, because to want comfort meant there was an exploitable weakness that could be used to hurt him.

Aziraphale reached into the empty space between them and took the demon's hand in his as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Crowley was as still as a statue. Then, ever so slowly, those long fingers tightened around Aziraphale's. They gave a little squeeze. When Aziraphale squeezed back, Crowley whispered, “Mm sorry. About earlier.”

“It's okay,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“It's not,” Crowley said. “I was a right git.” He pillowed his head on his other arm. “I put wards on the door,” he confessed.

“I know,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley's face scrunched up as if he was thinking really hard. “But,” he finally said, “You left your wings out?”

Whatever....oh. _Oh_. “I trust _you_. I was only trying to figure out why you were upset.” Aziraphale paused, then asked. “This is about Hell?”

Crowley nodded. Tension returned in his form, and his wings began shaking with tiny spasms. Aziraphale waited. The clock on the wall ticked methodically, filling the silence. Finally, Crowley visibly braced himself. “I killed someone. Hell sent two dukes to collect me,” Crowley spoke in quiet, measured syllables in the way he did when he was desperately trying to control his hiss. “You don't...you do not fail on the level I failed without....without punishment. It – Hell – we don't – it -”

“Torture,” Aziraphale translated. It wasn't exactly a shock. He'd long suspected that Hell's disciplinary procedures involved violent infliction of harm, and that Crowley had been on the receiving end of such procedures before. It was one of those things that they both knew, but neither ever acknowledged.

Crowley's head fell forward, sending his dark hair cascading over his forehead and into his eyes. After a pair of heartbeats, he nodded.

“Hell sent two dukes,” Aziraphale prompted.

“I had a flask of holy water,” Crowley confessed. “I laid a trap...”

He had so many questions. How had Crowley gotten his hands on holy water? In what world had he thought having something like that around was safe? Why did he think he _needed_ it? _He needed it,_ a little voice that sounded a lot like Crowley whispered in his mind, _Because of what would happen if his bosses learned he was friends with you._ “Both?” Aziraphale asked, “Or just the one?”

“One,” Crowley was still staring at the blankets. “They know where I live. They have to be – I _defied_ _Satan_. There will be …. ,” he swallowed and looked up. “I agreed to this... _this_ ,” he motioned at the room with their joined hands, “Because the bookshop is...well...and we can't go back to mine because if they're waiting for me, we'll be outnumbered and the two of us won't be able to get away. They will make me watch as they torture and kill you, becausse they know. They have to know. And I can't -” Crowley screwed his eyes closed. “Azssiraphale, I cannot lossse you. I cannot _risssk_ you.”

Somewhere, in everything that had happened, Aziraphale had never stopped to consider the depravity of potential punishments. He knew he might be pulled from earth and permanently stationed someplace where he couldn't cause trouble. There might even be a serious lack of books. He hadn't considered anything like what Crowley was concerned about. _Of course you wouldn't. That's Hell. It's not like Heaven would ever kill Crowley to teach you the error of your ways...._

They wouldn't, would they?

He had thought they wouldn't destroy the world if there was a way to save it. He had been wrong. The Metatron made it very clear that they wanted to destroy everyone on the other side, even if it meant Earth would be destroyed in the process. And suddenly, with a very cold certainty, Aziraphale knew that if Heaven got its hands on Crowley, they absolutely would kill him.

“If the only risk of damage was you,” Aziraphale asked. “Would you do it differently than you did? Would you stand aside and do as you were told?”

Crowley took the time to seriously consider this. “I...I don't know. I wanted to run away. I'm not brave, not like you. But you were right. About the humans. About staying for them.”

“You were right, too,” Aziraphale said. “When you met me in the park eleven years ago.”

“I really do like them, you know?” Crowley said softly. “They're so clever. They _imagine_ , Aziraphale. They can imagine like we never could. They see things in their minds and bring them to life, not with miracles but by looking around at what they have and coming up with new ways to piece it all together.”

It was why Crowley liked the technology things they made, Aziraphale mentally translated. Those things were the products of human imagination and creativity.

“They don't have wings,” Crowley continued, “But they figured out how to fly.”

“The stories,” Aziraphale offered. “For me, it's their stories. They can weave words together to make you see places you've never been and experience things that have never existed, and make you _believe_.”

“I don't understand...” Crowley paused, then started again, “I don't understand why they want to destroy that.”

Aziraphale wanted to say that it was because Heaven and Hell didn't understand humanity. He knew that, also, was a lie. It made it simpler but...he and Crowley weren't the only agents operating on Earth. There had been plenty of angels and demons moving among humanity for thousands of years. They knew. “It's dangerous,” he finally said. “Imagining things.”

Crowley's wings dipped closer to his body, folding in tightly, and his shoulders rose. He became still.

“The...the power structures only stay in place,” Aziraphale continued slowly, “So long as no one wonders if things could be different.”

“You shouldn't say things like that,” the words tumbled out of Crowley's mouth.

“But, what if – what if that's the point? What if that's the bit of the Ineffable Plan that we've been missing?” Aziraphale asked. “If the Almighty didn't want us to imagine, then why would He give us free will?”

Crowley didn't relax, but he took a few minutes to ponder that.

It was quite a lot to ponder. Aziraphale had been thinking about it all day, in between the whole possessing humans and getting to Tadfield and trying to stop the end of the world bits. They hadn't really considered themselves as beings who had free will. Everything they were taught, the Ideas at the very center of their supernatural communities, revolved around this: Angels were Good, Demons were Bad, and you had to obey, no matter what side you were on.

Aziraphale had liked that thought. It was safe. It told him he was Good, and everyone wanted to be Good and Worthy when you got right down to it. It gave him someone to compare himself to who was not Good, which, in turn, helped reinforce the artificial idea that he _was_. All he had to do to stay Good was do as he was told. But that was all propaganda, wasn't it? The truth had been sitting right there, out in the open, for thousands of years.

It went something like this: At the end of the day, angels and demons were the same. They were made the same. They had the same innate characteristics. The only difference was that demons chose to rebel. Crowley wasn't created innately Bad any more than Aziraphale had been created innately Good. Crowley had good characteristics and bad ones, just the same as Aziraphale. The only real difference in their stories was that Crowley just...made a different choice. If demons could make that choice, then demons must have free will. That was the whole point of free will, after all – you could make choices. And if angels and demons were the same, then...well, then angels had free will, too.

Of course, that opened up a whole new line of complex and confusing questions. If you got to choose, was it even possible to be Good or Bad? Really Good or really Bad? Aziraphale didn't have an answer.

“Do you think He wanted it all to end?” Crowley finally asked.

“No.” Aziraphale replied. “That was, well, that's where the ineffability bit comes in.”

“Why didn't He stop it, then?” Crowley asked. “He's supposed to be more powerful than any of us.”

“He didn't need to,” Aziraphale guessed. “He gave, well, He gave everyone the power to stop it if they chose to. And then he let us choose and face the consequences. Some of them did choose to stop it. Adam chose to stop it. And his friends.”

Crowley tilted his head back, the motion nearly sending him tumbling back onto his wings before he caught himself. “Us?”

They hadn't actually done anything, in the end, but they'd tried. “I think we chose the right thing.”

“Easy for you,” Crowley switched direction and fell forward into his pillow. “You're an angel. You're _supposed_ to do the right thing. But I'm....”

“What if,” Aziraphale said, “We were always meant to have choices? We just...didn't imagine we could. What if Heaven and Hell are just, are just choices? You're the one who's always saying that it's just names for sides. What are the sides even about anyway?”

Crowley's muffled voice came from the pillow. “I feel like I'm the one who's supposed to ask that stuff.” He lifted his head. “This is heresy. You know that, right? You know you're spouting heresy? Do you know what happens when we do that?” His fingers tightened around Aziraphale's. “It isn't worth it, you know.”

“I told the Metatron that it could all be stopped,” Aziraphale admitted. “And the Metatron didn't want it to. Neither side seemed to care much what happened to the humans today. But our Father made the humans. And He said He loves them. And He told us – well, me, I'm not sure you were around for those instructions – but He told me we're supposed to try to help them. So how can it be heresy to love the humans and try to help them?”

“I....” Crowley fell silent. Finally, he declared, “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”

It was absurd and yet so _Crowley_ that Aziraphale heard himself laugh.

Crowley's shoulders relaxed, and Aziraphale found himself on the receiving end of a fond smile. “I'm glad,” Crowley said, “That you're here with me.”

“I am, too,” Aziraphale said. “Glad you're here with me, I mean.”

Crowley took in a deep breath and let it out. “What do we do now?”

“I don't know,” Aziraphale replied. “But we're clever. And if we work together, we will puzzle out a solution. Something that keeps us both alive and free and _here._ ”

He expected some sort of quip from Crowley. Instead, the demon looked at him with a face full of hope. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. “Yeah.”

~*~

“So.” Aziraphale fiddled with the drawstring to the hood on his sweatshirt.

Crowley leaned forward to rest his forearms against the steering wheel. It felt...incredibly surreal to be sitting just outside St. James Park. He wanted to think it was because they were in an Army jeep and that neither of them typically went for the hooded shirt with pajama bottoms look for going out in public. He knew, however, that neither of those excuses was the problem. “So.”

Aziraphale took in a long breath and leaned over to check the digital clock on the dashboard. “It's a quarter past nine. Meet back here at eleven?”

“Better make it half past,” Crowley suggested. Neither moved. A young woman clutching what looked like a bag of art supplies walked in front of the parked jeep without giving them a second glance. She nearly collided with a man dressed in the sort of manner Crowley understood to be 'cool' if one was at a club and not taking a walk of shame. The humans avoided each other and went on their ways. The sidewalk became calm again. Angel and demon remained in their seats. Crowley pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. “I can go with you, you know.”

“Best not.” Aziraphale replied. “Not that I wouldn't want the company. I...” he scrubbed his hands over his face once before dropping them to his lap. “What you said about the risk of Hell harming me if we both showed up at your flat? It works both ways. My side was, well, rather enthusiastic about a war. They're going to want to take it out somehow and a lone demonic target....”

“Oh.” Crowley said. It had been a little too easy last night to forget that he was supposed to be Aziraphale's enemy. Although Aziraphale hadn't felt like an enemy in a long time, Crowley had always gotten the impression that Aziraphale didn't forget what they were supposed to be. But during the Apocalypse and After, even that had dissipated. 'Crowley remembered what Heaven was like,' and while 'you couldn't get a decent drink' there, and there was a lot of boredom, there had been other things.* Nice things. Trust. Loyalty. Love. He wasn't sure what it was like now - things tended to change after wars – but he remembered what it had been like Then. At the dawn of In The Beginning. What it was like to be an angel. And it had felt, last night, that Aziraphale was treating him like an angel. Or, at least, like an equal, which, with _Aziraphale_ meant treating someone like they were also an angel. And while Crowley did not necessarily want to be an angel – they wanted to end the world, too – he liked feeling like Aziraphale saw him as an equal and not an enemy. “Right.”

“Once we both know there are no traps laid, we can, oh, I don't know, establish a base of operations somewhere.” Aziraphale said. “And once you've given the all clear for your flat, I can provide you with some additional wards. That is, if you plan to stay there.”

“I...I really haven't gotten that far.” Crowley admitted.

They both fell silent again.

Neither moved.

“Do you want to rebuild?” Crowley asked. “I have some contacts who will give you a fair price if you do.” He saw Aziraphale's eyebrows shoot up and pointed at him. “Don't give me that look. I know some decent humans. I promise no mob connections.”

“Do you even _have_ mob connections?” Aziraphale asked.

He thought about lying and bragging that he had tons of them, then decided against it. “Not as many as you.”

“I wouldn't say they're _connections_ ,” Aziraphale folded his hands primly in his lap. “We had some investigatory talks and decided it was best if we did not do business together.”

Some day, Crowley wanted to know the whole story. He also wanted to know if Aziraphale could work this trick on any demons who may want to pick a fight with Crowley.

“If you have a list of trustworthy contractors,” Aziraphale continued, “I'm happy to interview them. Well. If I decide to rebuild. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do next.”

Crowley tried to imagine Aziraphale without a bookshop. If Aziraphale decided not to start over with his book collecting, would he even stay in London? It was a thought Crowley could not entertain. Not right now. “Are you going to keep, you know, doing your Heavenly duties?”

“I'm not sure. I want – I think I want to try to...I don't know, look out for the humans. I'm not quite sure what that looks like.” Aziraphale played with the drawstring to his hood once more, wrapping the end between his fingers. “I haven't always been a good angel,” he admitted softly. “But I do love them.”

“Yeah, well, I don't think I'll be on Hell's Employee of the Year plaque any time soon. I don't-” Crowley stopped. With a bit more confidence, he tried again, “I'm not going to go back to my job.”

He expected a shocked reaction. Instead, Aziraphale simply nodded. “I can't imagine you would.”

It struck him _why_ Aziraphale wasn't surprised. Crowley looked down at the steering wheel. “I'm not good, angel. And I'm never going to be.”

“I'm not looking to redeem you, Crowley.” Aziraphale replied quietly. “Not in the Heavenly way, at least. I just simply cannot imagine you going back to how things were after everything. Besides, it's not as if your side is giving you any incentive to work for them again.”

 _If they're going to destroy me_ , Crowley translated, _at least make them work for it_. He supposed he could run. It wasn't what he meant, but if he was being honest with himself, those were his options. He let his head drop to the steering wheel.

“It might,” Aziraphale suggested carefully, “Be worth talking with the Antichrist. Maybe see if the two of you can come to some sort of arrangement. It seems to me that you've got the same opinions on the important bits and he certainly seemed open to some sort of deal.”

“I don't think he's with Hell,” Crowley turned his head to the side so he could see the angel. “Nor does he want to be.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Crowley reddened slightly. “Right.”

“You'd probably have to give up messing people around,” Aziraphale added. “It wouldn't be perfect, but it would be...well, it would be a way to preserve your freedom.”

Had Aziraphale always been able to see through him? Crowley wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he liked it or if it was bloody terrifying, either. “What about if I only use non-magical means?” He asked, sitting up once more. “I don't know if I can just...not do anything. I'll go crazy.”

“I'm not really in any position to negotiate on behalf of the Antichrist.” Aziraphale's voice took on its prim Aziraphaleness. “You need to have that conversation with him. But I've been thinking, and if you're serious about, er, wanting a change in profession, I do think he doesn't want to see you come to harm. He told you not to worry, after all.”

“He also said everyone would forget.” Crowly said. “And I haven't forgotten. Any of it. At all.” He slumped in his seat. It wasn't actually a terrible idea. And the Antichrist had seemed as if he wanted to help after he'd traipsed through the contents of Crowley's memories. It _could_ work. They could probably come to some sort of a deal. Maybe. He tried to remember the boy in ways that weren't _terrifyingly powerful_ and _Antichrist_ , and came away with an image of a curious boy who loved his home and whose imagination sometimes got him into some trouble. He was, when you looked at him as a person and not something absolutely nightmarish, someone Crowley could understand. “I think,” he finally said, “I'll head back up there tomorrow. See if he's willing to hear me out.”

“Marvelous.”

Crowley glanced at the angel out of the corner of his eye. “What about you?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, “That if I was going to be punished, it would have happened by now. The Almighty does not string these things out.”

Crowley remembered. Judgment had come quickly and furiously. It was, however, very much the truth. If Aziraphale was going to be punished by the Almighty, it would have happened by now. “And what about the rest of your people?”

“Hopefully watching The Sound of Music,” Aziraphale said. “But probably more dangerous to you right now than to me.” He took a last look out through the windshield, then let out a deep sigh and reached for the door. “Promise me you won't be fashionably late.”

Crowley blinked. “Huh?”

“So if you don't show up,” Aziraphale translated, “It's because you're actually in trouble and not just trying to,” he waved a hand at Crowley, “I don't know, make an entrance.”

“If I'm not here at half past,” Crowley said, dead serious, “It's because they were waiting.”

Aziraphale's hand wavered over the door handle. He glanced at Crowley again.

For six thousand years, Crowley had gotten from day to day by clinging to the belief that, in the end, 'he would come out on top.'* He might have lost that belief for awhile yesterday, but if he didn't pick it back up, then Hell won, even if they never touched him again. He wasn't sure if he believed it yet, but he could keep telling himself what he needed to until he did. “I'll be here when you get back, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, well.” The angel opened the door and slid from the jeep. “You'd best be. I don't want to have to spend the next six millennia training your replacement on how to be a proper adversary. He won't have _any_ taste when it comes to fine dining, I just know it.”

Crowley heard himself bite out a laugh, and he opened his own door. “I'll see you in a couple hours, angel. And then we're going to get you some decent clothes and I'll take you to whatever fine dining establishment you want.”

“Half past eleven is brunch,” Aziraphale protested.

“We are _not_ getting brunch dressed like this,” Crowley joined him on the street. “These trousers have _hearts_ on them.”

“You picked them out,” Aziraphale said primly.

Crowley opened his mouth, pointing at the angel. He _had_ picked them out. He dropped his hand to his side.

“I need to remember this one,” Aziraphale's voice became mild, “The next time we have one of our debates.”

“We aren't going to debate about pajamas,” Crowley protested.

“You never know.” Aziraphale grinned.

“Bastard,” Crowley muttered. They looked at each other a long moment. This was it, then. He would turn and head towards Mayfair. Aziraphale would head to SoHo. They would see what was left of their lives and, if there was anything _right_ in this world, they would return to this spot. “Half past.”

“Half past,” Aziraphale echoed. He gave Crowley the smallest of smiles and slid his hands into the pockets of his shirt, then turned and started in the direction of what had once been his home.

Crowley turned towards his flat. He tried to start towards Mayfair. His feet remained glued to the sidewalk, more secure than the strongest super-glued coin. He turned back to where Aziraphale's back was moving further away. This time, when he told himself to move, his feet obeyed easily. “Angel!?”

Aziraphale turned.

He was jogging now. There were probably humans watching. Crowley found he really didn't care. He finished closing the distance between himself and the angel and, without hesitating, wrapped Aziraphale in a tight hug.

Aziraphale went rigid for a heartbeat before relaxing. His arms came up to clasp Crowley in a matching embrace. It felt so good to hug the angel. He was real and alive and there.

 _I almost lost you_ , Crowley shut his eyes. _I almost lost you. I'm so glad I didn't lose you._ “I just want to say,” Crowley started. He heard Aziraphale make a little noise that sounded a bit like a laugh and started over. “I just wanted to say. Thank you.”

Aziraphale's fingers tightened over the back of Crowley's neck. “Likewise, my dear.”

“And be safe,” Crowley added.

“You as well.” Aziraphale gave him a final squeeze and stepped back. “It will be alright, Crowley. This isn't the end.”

It wasn't. If anything, it was a new beginning. There would be terror and wonder, sorrow and joy, pain and love, and all the things they'd falsely believed were solely the province of humans. There would be time – days, and months, and years. To imagine. To choose. To live. It was 'the first day of the rest of their lives.'*

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> * - I intentionally incorporated quotes from the book into this. Most, however, are so woven into the narrative that I could not easily cite them. I marked them with single quotes and an asterisk – 'quote'* and am giving attribution here. The quote “mortals can hope for death or redemption. You can hope for nothing” is from Page 333 of Good Omens. I tweaked it slightly to read 'humans' instead of 'mortals.' I also used part of the paragraph “But Crowley remembered what Heaven was like, and it had quite a few things in common with Hell. You couldn't get a decent drink in either of them for a start” which is on Pages 24-25. Crowley also references boredom with regard to his time in Heaven, which is from the same paragraph of the book. I paraphrased the section on Page 361 about Crowley being an optimist and believing the universe would look out for him so that he would come out on top. Finally, “The first day of the rest of their lives” is the title of the “Sunday” section of the book.
> 
> The title is from Return of the King, and is part of the line, “I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things.” It's uttered in that story after the One Ring is destroyed therefore saving the world, but the characters are not sure they will survive. The sentiment felt appropriate.
> 
> I apologize that this is not beta'ed or as clean as my stuff typically is. The time crunch of a challenge piece meant less time to clean and revise.


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